


Home (Is Where I'm Alone With You)

by vvitchering (Witchering)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Exhaustion, Feral Behavior, Hunt Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Witcher Secret Santa 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchering/pseuds/vvitchering
Summary: Another year is drawing to a close and winter is just around the corner. Eskel walks the long road home and finds it a little sooner than he expected. Written for the Witcher Secret Santa 2020.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 13
Kudos: 89
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Home (Is Where I'm Alone With You)

**Author's Note:**

> For @bards-witcher on tumblr for the Witcher Secret Santa 2020 event. My prompts were hurt/ comfort and soulmates. I leaned more into the h/c than the soulmates aspects, but any time I write these two they seem like soulmates to me :) Happy Holidays, everyone!

It’s not often Eskel runs into other witchers on the Path. They’re a dying breed and the world is changing. Whether it’s changing for the better or not, he couldn’t say, and it’s really not his concern. He’s always said he’s a simple witcher. He’ll be long gone and forgotten before the last stinking necrophage or chittering endegra is cut down. But for as long as monsters continue roam the land and he has strength enough to hold a sword, he has a purpose, and that’s enough for him. 

Simple never was enough for Geralt, though, so of course it’s him who Eskel runs into. 

They’re back to back, facing off against a frankly unholy amount of foglets. They’re some of Eskel’s least favorite creatures to hunt and he knows Geralt feels similarly. Foglets are fast, hardy, and invisible more than half the time. They have to rely on their noses and ears to parse out where the infernal things are and by the time Eskel pinpoints one, another has leapt out. 

It’s almost embarrassing: two witchers with as much experience as he and Geralt have between them should have no problem with a pack of foglets. They sicced foglets on the green trainees at Kaer Morhen, for Meletile’s sake. But he’s exhausted, practically dead on his feet after his last contract. It was meant to be his last job before he began his trek towards the mountains to return home for the winter. He should have waved at Geralt as he passed him by and continued on towards home. 

The other witcher has always been a trouble magnet and on the rare occasions it doesn’t come to him, the idiot goes looking for it himself. The life he leads is decidedly complicated, a direct opposite to Eskel’s preferred simplicity. Geralt cares too much, always has, and it’s going to get him killed someday. Eskel would rather that day was as far off as possible, so of course he stopped to help. Clearing a swamp of nekkers was a milk run as far as contracts went. Geralt, bleeding heart that he is, agreed to do it for no more than a few traveling supplies when the villagers could offer no coin.

All well and fine on paper. Until they arrived in the heart of the swamp to find no nekkers at all, but a vicious hoard of foglets, for which they were both unprepared. They hadn’t done their usual sweep of the area, hadn’t thoroughly interrogated the villagers, hadn’t even bothered to approach stealthily. Rookie mistakes made by tired men who just wanted to get in, get out, and go home a little more well supplied than before. 

They’ve killed a slew of the creatures already, but more keep seeming to spawn from nowhere to replace their fallen brethren. Eskel grits his teeth. They’re woefully under-prepared. The few potions and decoctions they carried between the two of them had disappeared quickly when they realized the situation they found themselves in was worse than expected. 

Geralt’s eyes are wild and dilated, black veins like spiderwebs spread across his face and neck. Eskel can feel him twitching with adrenaline against his back. He himself had downed what was left that might help, but Geralt is the powerhouse between the two of them and Eskel is man enough to acknowledge that. The White Wolf, with his extra mutations and higher tolerance for toxicity, is better suited to survive a necessary potion overdose. But Eskel is no damsel in distress, either, despite his exhaustion. 

“I’ve got one more decent Igni in me. I’ll clear a path, then we run.” Eskel says as he swaps his sword to his non-dominant hand in preparation. 

Geralt grunts in reply, a bit too far under the feral influence of the potions to answer with words. The foglets have regrouped and are closing in again, dancing in and out of the mist that surrounds them. Geralt growls and snaps his teeth at one that appears a bit too close for his liking and elbows Eskel to get on with it. 

Time to go. 

Eskel draws in a deep breath of moist and putrid smelling swamp air, focuses on the thrum of magic that flows in his veins, and unleashes a veritable firestorm from his outstretched hand. Despite the mist and marsh, the land practically incinerates on contact around them. Eskel’s signs are the best of any witcher in centuries and his particularly intense Igni is almost as famous as Geralt. He gives all he has, reaching deep to tap into stores of energy he rarely calls upon, and his flames glow blue with the intensity of the heat. 

Over the roar of the flames he can hear the foglets shriek. He’s caught at least half of their number in the blast and the remaining ones fall back in shock. Eskel cuts the sign off abruptly and does his best not to stumble as the rush of magic abates and lightheadedness sets in. He must not succeed as well as he thinks because Geralt grabs his arm and hauls him forward and they both take off into the trees.

The sign has bought them time, but the remaining foglets are singed and enraged and Eskel can hear them giving chase close behind. Witchers are fast, but he and Geralt are weighed down by their armor, weapons, and their own fatigue. The swampy terrain doesn’t do them any favors either. They’ll never outrun the foglets in their own territory and the potions will soon wear off, leaving Eskel and Geralt at their most vulnerable. Already Eskel’s muscles are starting to scream and his breath is coming harder and harder as he struggles to keep up with Geralt’s gait. 

He almost runs right into Geralt when the other witcher stops short in front of him. Geralt’s eyes flick back and forth across the landscape and he raises his face to scent the air, searching for...something. He’s an accomplished tracker, so Eskel is inclined to allow him the moment to orient himself, but he can already hear the foglets closing the small bit of distance they’d gained on them and his instincts scream at him to keep moving, to find somewhere safe to rest. Geralt seems to make up his mind finally and grabs at Eskel’s arm again, pulling him in a different direction, towards an outcropping of rock. 

It’s the entrance to a cave system. It’s a gamble. It’s defensible and covered, which are desirable traits in a shelter, but they’ll be trapped until they can regain their strength or the foglets lose interest, decidedly not desirable or likely. And they run the risk of sealing themselves inside with even worse company, given that there’s no time to scout the cave for other occupants.

There’s little choice, in the end. 

They skid to a halt just inside and Geralt is already pushing and shoving at a massive boulder to try and block the entrance they’ve just come through. Eskel slides in beside him and adds his own strength and the boulder begins to roll. It’s painstakingly slow work. They’re both on the very edge of exhaustion and Eskel can hear the foglets shrieking as they spot the two witchers. 

“Fuck, push!” Eskel yells, and the rock cracks ominously under their fingers as they throw their backs into it. The boulder rolls into place in front of the entrance just as the first foglet charges at them with its teeth bared. It gets a faceful of stone instead of flesh and Eskel breathes out unsteadily in relief. 

Safe. For the moment. The cave is silent, but for the distant sound of dripping water. There’s no immediately apparent sign that the cave is inhabited, but they’ve both learned their lesson about taking things at face value. Small rays of light penetrate through the craggy ceiling of the cave, casting everything in dim eerie shadow. It’s more than enough light for a witcher’s eyes to see relatively clearly, even without the aid of Cat. Geralt is still twitchy with the potions rushing through his system and Eskel can see him shifting his weight back and forth on his feet like he’s itching to continue to run or otherwise exert himself. 

“Go scout the back, I’ll see about getting a fire going. We’ll be here a while.” Eskel says. The words are barely out of his mouth before Geralt is stalking away towards the dark end of the cave. Eskel listens until he can’t hear his footsteps any longer and then collapses in a heap. The floor of the cave is covered in moss and it pads his limbs and ass somewhat from the rough fall, but it does nothing for the chill and dampness. He needs to start a fire and take stock of the situation, figure out their next course of action. It’s the proper thing to do. The idea of moving makes his already throbbing head hurt worse and now that he’s had a moment to catch his breath, he notices several other injuries that have all begun to clammer for attention. 

His arm is bleeding sluggishly from a deep scratch. The palm of his right hand is burned and blistered from the strength of the Igni he had produced. He feels nauseated from the potions he’d taken and lightheaded from expending so much energy on his signs. Not the best he’s ever felt, but not the worst by a large margin. 

He manages to clear a space for a small fire, placing stones in their proper place, and piles up the driest material he can find. There’s a seldom used flint box in his pocket. Carrying it is a precaution beaten into him from survival training as a youth. He can almost hear the old masters lecturing about the importance of being prepared on the Path and not relying entirely on his special abilities to get by. Igni would light the fire in a few seconds, but it would cost Eskel energy he just can’t spare. 

The flint box sputters out a few weak sparks that don’t catch on the damp twigs and clumps of moss and Eskel growls in frustration. Dragon of Kaer Morgen, his ass. He can’t even muster up a candle flame. 

The sound of boots on wet stone has Eskel looking up from his task expectantly. Geralt wanders back into view and while he doesn’t look much better than he did, he does seem calmer, more settled in his own skin. The black veins have receded somewhat and he’s gained back some color in his skin. His body remains super-efficient, ridding itself of the toxins it no longer needs to keep Geralt alive. He has the stench of it about him. The potions taint his usually pleasant scent with the smell of death and poison. Eskel’s sure he doesn’t smell much better to Geralt, either. 

“Back end is clear. Found the remains of a nest of some kind, but it’s old. Been abandoned a long while.” Geralt says and it’s another kind of relief to hear his words have returned to him. He frowns a bit at Eskel’s pathetic attempts to start the fire and gestures at the pile. It bursts into merrily crackling flames in an instant. 

“Show off. Not all of us are bottomless pits of stamina, you know.” Eskel grumbles, raising his hands to bask in the warmth of the flames.

Geralt chuckles lowly in his chest and sits down heavily at Eskel’s side. The dark scent of toxicity is beginning to fade, allowing a bit more of Geralt’s usual scent to permeate the air. He smells of green growing things, herbs and flowers, underscored by the sharp metallic twang of magic all witchers have. He smells like home. 

“You’re okay?” Geralt asks.

“Yeah, Wolf. Fine. Tired. Let off a bit of a firestorm back there, if you didn’t notice.” 

Eskel can feel Geralt’s eyes boring into him without needing to look up from the fire. He always was uncannily good at seeing through Eskel’s lies. 

“Look, if it’ll make you feel better,” Eskel shrugs out of his jacket, laying the spike covered garment aside, and shoves his bare wrist in Geralt’s face.

“Smell for yourself. I’m  _ fine _ .”

It’s a ritual they have, something they usually only perform once they’re safely behind Kaer Morhen’s walls for the season. But Geralt is impossible when he’s worried and there’s no better way to assuage his fears than letting him assess Eskel’s condition himself. Geralt is impossibly gentle when he takes Eskel’s arm in his hands. It might be insulting, if it were anyone else, but they’ve known each other too long to let things like that bother them. 

Geralt lowers his head and inhales along the scarred skin of Eskel’s inner arm. He holds the breath, as if savoring the smell of a fine wine, and then releases it all at once. He doesn’t let go of Eskel’s arm.

“Satisfied?” Eskel asks.

Geralt growls softly and his eyes reflect the flames of the fire before them when he raises his gaze to meet Eskel’s. 

“You smell like shit.” 

The bluntness startles a hearty laugh out of Eskel and he pulls his arm out of Geralt’s grasp to smack him on the back and pull him closer, more nestled into his side. 

“Yeah, yeah, still working through that decoction I threw back. I think it was one of yours. You always brew them strong. Doesn’t mean I ain’t fine.”

Geralt doesn’t seem convinced and takes the opportunity to shove his face into Eskel’s neck now that he’s closer. Geralt’s nose is cold as it trails from the hinge of Eskel’s jaw down to his collarbone, scenting him again. Eskel starts as he feels Geralt sneak a lick against his pulse point and he swats the white haired witcher lightly on the shoulder for his cheek. Geralt whines in response, apologetic, and rubs his scratchy stubbled face on the area instead.

It all feels comforting on some primal level. It’s like they’re pups again, paired up as they complete their survival training, taking a moment to rest and assess. Eskel feels the exhaustion of a full year on the Path down to his bones. They’re not home, not yet, they can’t indulge in each other the way they want to. But maybe there’s something in the way that they are each other’s home, more than Kaer Morhen ever was or will be, that whispers that it might be okay to indulge now, just a bit. 

Eskel pulls Geralt closer still, urges him to rest his head in the crook of his shoulder and lean his weight against him. Eskel has always been the sturdy one and, despite his bone deep weariness, having Geralt relax against him makes him feel strong. Geralt certainly doesn’t seem to have any complaints about their new positions. Cuddled close as they are, he can scent Eskel to his heart’s content, and Eskel can rest his eyes for a while, satisfied that Geralt’s worries are soothed. They’re safe, or as safe as they can be in some backwater cave in a foglet infested swamp, and the sound of the fire and their combined heartbeats is hypnotic.

Between one second and the next, Eskel drifts into sleep. His hurts will heal, his strength will return. Until then, until they can return to the keep, he and Geralt will savor the time they can spend this way, wrapped up in each other. The world may be changing around them, but their bond remains unwavering and true. 

Simple enough for the both of them. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Mel and Kickdrums on Twitter for their insightful beta work and encouragement :) And to everyone I bothered while coming up with concepts for this fic!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr and Twitter @vvitchering


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